It's Different
by MyAlias
Summary: A Luke/Lorelai happily-ever-after story, set almost two years after the series finale, "Bon Voyage."


_I wanted to read a fluffy fanfiction about Luke and Lorelai set well after the series finale. I couldn't find what I had in mind, so I wrote this. Short, sweet, and totally fluffy—enjoy!_

_A/N: This is set in the present day, basically. Oh, also, I own none of these characters. _

* * *

I'm lying on my side on the couch watching CNN's primary coverage with a bowl of buttery popcorn resting right in front of me—the only good way to watch anything. I never used to care much about politics, but now that Rory's covering Obama's campaign, I don't really have a choice. As it turns out, this stuff is almost as dramatic as _Days of Our Lives_, which is probably what I'd be watching otherwise. 

I'm waiting for Rory's next text message. I need to know whether the smelly_Chicago Tribune _reporter has taken a shower yet. He's putting my daughter's health at risk otherwise.

I scrape the bottom of the popcorn bowl. Licking the salt off the tips of my fingers, I head to the kitchen to find more food. Something else salty. Or sweet. Or cheesy. Yes, cheesy. I'm pretty sure there's some Easy Mac in one of these high cabinets… If I just stand on my tip-toes maybe I can reach it…

"What are you doing!? Stop! Lorelai, sit down! I'll get it for you!" When I hear his raised voice, I feel like a toddler caught coloring on the wall. I freeze and start running through possible excuses that don't involve the words "Easy Mac."

If this had happened last month, I would have rolled my eyes. But Luke and I have already had enough of these conversations—they all go exactly the same way—and it's hard to keep getting mad at him just for worrying about me. I pull my hand out of the cabinet and turn to face him. He doesn't even look surprised. "I was looking for the Easy Mac."

"The doctor said—"

"I know what the doctor said. He said it's okay to walk to the kitchen."

"But you weren't just in the kitchen. You were doing, I don't know, kitchen aerobics." He tries to help me walk back to the couch, but I manage to avoid his offer of support as I hurry back into the living room. It's not that I don't appreciate his concern—I do—but I need to assert my independence once in a while. If I can't make my own Easy Mac, then I can at least walk by myself to the couch. But instead of getting frustrated with him, I try to focus on the part of me that finds his behavior incredibly endearing. He's already the overprotective father that Rory never had.

We've been having these debates over how much activity is too much activity for over a month, ever since the doctor told me to take it easy. I thought the hardest part of this pregnancy would be giving up caffeine, but that was nothing compared to the enforced stillness of the past month. Rory's been great with the near-constant text messages, and Luke comes home almost every hour to check on me. Yet the boredom persists.

* * *

Based on my last experience, I couldn't have predicted this boredom. When I was pregnant with Rory, actually being pregnant was the easy part. I wasn't forced to lie in bed, and when I was resting, I was far too scared to be bored. At 16, I was terrified of the thought of what I would do after she was born. 

This time, in a theme that's come to define the past eight and a half months, it's exactly the opposite from when I was pregnant with Rory. The physical part is difficult, but I'm not scared about the next phase.

My Zen-like attitude didn't come automatically. When Luke and I got married—just a couple of months after Rory left for the campaign trail—I wasn't even sure I wanted to have another baby. Neither was Luke. It had been such a challenge just to get to our wedding day. I wanted to savor the stability that I had wanted for so long.

And then, suddenly, my father passed away. As I came to terms with it, I started feeling like late-30s wasn't so young. I noticed new lines on my face—and on Luke's. He and I went to Sookie and Jackson's for dinner a few days later. Luke pushed Davey on the swing-set, and I wondered if he was feeling the same strange feeling that I was—the feeling that we were missing out on some great adventure because we had waited too long to book tickets.

The next night, we ate dinner at our house in a comfortable silence. We'd both given each other tacit permission to think instead of talk. He broke the silence as I took my last bite of ravioli. "If you disagree… if you disagree that's fine, you know how I feel about you and about this and… you know," he stammered. "But, last night… I'd never done that before—just pushed a kid on a swing. I know that you have, I know that, but I missed that whole thing. I thought I didn't care, and maybe I don't care, but maybe I do, and I just feel like I'm starting to get up there and—"

I leaned across the table and kissed him, stopping his speech short. "Okay," I said.

"Yeah? You're sure?"

I nodded. And just like that, we made the decision. Maybe Luke and I should have talked about it more, should've waited longer after my dad died, should've made sure that we made the decision for the right reasons. But whether or not we made the decision for the right reasons is unimportant. What matters more is that I know, completely, that we made the right decision.

Oddly enough, my mother is the reason that I am now so confident about our decision. After my father died, she'd get into these sentimental moods and say some of the gentlest, most insightful stuff I've ever heard her say. A few weeks after we found out that I was pregnant, Luke and I went to the house for Wednesday night dinner—a new tradition that seemed to help her cope, even though she'd never admit it. When we told her the news, she was polite, but hard to read. Typical Emily.

Later, when Luke stepped out to take a phone call from April, my mom leaned back in her chair and stared blankly toward the kitchen. Then, out of nowhere, she spoke. "I was just thinking about the last time you told me you were pregnant." She tapped her fingertips on the white tablecloth. "It's been a long time." She paused again. "You surprised us all last time, Lorelai. You succeeded with Rory when everyone—even myself, I must admit—expected you to fail. You know what you're doing." She paused, choosing her words carefully and looking straight at me. "Still, it'll be completely different this time. I hope you're paying attention to it. You're not alone this time—and being alone is very different from having a husband. You'll share things with him that you never thought you'd share with anyone. You're lucky this time. You're not alone."

I had trouble finding words to respond to her, but before I could come up with something, Luke came back into the dining room. But my mother's words resonated with me—and not for the usual reasons. While I was still figuring out how I felt about starting all over with another baby, she gave me the perspective I needed to realize that I wasn't starting all over. This time was different.

* * *

Now that I'm again sitting on the couch where I seem to spend my entire life, Luke puts his arms around me so that my head rests on his stomach. I'm glad we both decided not to let this turn into a long discussion. He lingers for a moment, running his hand over my hair. "Can I bring you some Easy Mac? Or something else, maybe with fewer baby-harming toxic cheeses?" 

"I ate plenty of these baby-harming toxic cheeses before Rory was born, and she turned out just fine. And yes. Easy Mac. Please." He walks back to the kitchen, and I try to pay attention to a Wolf Blitzer interview on CNN. (His beard is so distracting, though. Rory disagrees, but I think the beard steals the show every time.) Mid-interview, my phone buzzes again: "no he didnt shower but some other reporters r threatening to push him in hotel pool. i might help."

I lean back into the couch cushion and smile, imagining my Yale-educated, very mature daughter pushing a journalist into a hotel pool. And out of nowhere, almost before I feel the pain itself, my face winces in response to it. Immediately, I recognize this feeling from almost 24 years ago, and like some sort of conditional response, I'm overcome with the same wave of fear that hit me back then. How am I going to do this? How am I going to have a baby and raise a baby and be adult enough to deal with this? How? How?

I take a deep breath and try to keep my emotions in check long enough to send Rory one more message. I steady my hands to text. "push him in the pool. it's a new adventure. i love you, kid."

"Luke!" I shout, as soon as I hit the send button. I'm not even trying to disguise the shakiness in my voice. I don't have to pretend to be brave this time.

"I'm coming with the Easy Mac. Calm—" He stops himself when he walks out of the kitchen and sees the look on my face. "No? Now?" he says, practically dropping the Easy Mac on the nearest flat surface. I nod. The "How's?" are still racing through my head. How am I going to make it to the hospital without throwing up? How am I having the baby today? It's still two weeks too early. I haven't gotten the last of Sookie's baby clothes yet! How am I going to deal with this?

This time, I'm happy to let him help me as we walk toward the car. He opens the door. He helps me buckle in. He runs inside to get the bag he packed for me weeks ago. He brings me a water bottle. He asks a million questions and makes harried arrangements as we drive. Should I call Rory? Okay, she wants to fly out right now. Should I call your Mom? Okay, she's meeting us there. Should I call Sookie? Are you thirsty? Am I driving too fast? Am I driving too slow? Is your seat at the right angle? How's the temperature? Should I change the radio station?

The "How's" are subsiding now. I'm not a 16-year-old in a taxi cab. I'm here with Luke. With my husband. On the way to meet our baby. The question isn't, "How am I going to do this." It's, "How are we doing to do this?" It sounds corny—it _is_ corny—but it's incredibly comforting.

And as much as I hate to admit it, I know my mom was right. This time is different.


End file.
